Tim
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Set after Tim returns from his global trip to become a better Robin to Bruce, this story deals with his introduction to Jim Gordon, flaunts his superior detective skills, demonstrates his fighting ability and his differences from previous Robins
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I am writing further chapters for **_**Fear, Family **_**and **_**Forge**_**. However, I just thought of this idea last night and decided I wanted to bulk up my portfolio just a little more by adding it today ahead of any others currently in publication that require further instalments. Set shortly after Tim returns from his global trip to become a better Robin to Bruce, this story deals with his introduction to Jim Gordon, flaunts his superior detective skills, demonstrates his fighting ability and his differences from his predecessors. A pertinent note is that Tim has just started out as Robin and is still finding his feet. Who better to narrate a detailed report of his partner's performance than Bruce? Nobody, that's who. Enjoy. **

**Tim**

"Your new boy is something different." Jim Gordon informs me whilst Robin is on the other side of the GCPD rooftop, analysing something for him on my behalf. "He seems more…precocious than his predecessors." I stare at my long-time friend and ally.

"What exactly are you implying?" Jim re-lights his pipe and takes a long drag before responding. He shrugs his shoulders.

"You never let them analyse case information on your behalf; they are just boys after all. But, within minutes of meeting this one for the first time, I watch you hand over the evidence bag without a word." Jim glances away from the boy, focusing his gaze on me, "Is he really as good as you? And I mean in the detective department, not his fighting prowess which I'm sure is outstanding." I answer without returning his gaze; I am studying Robin's body language for clues.

"He has the potential to be even better." Jim seems to accept my judgement without question, nodding in silent approval. He gestures at the boy.

"I'm glad this one has a more self-conscious fashion sense than his predecessors. I always thought those shorts were a little too revealing for a young man." I smile, recalling Dick's original decision for 'pixie shorts' to be part of the Robin outfit and how inappropriate I thought the idea. This Robin does seem more mature for wearing tights, as strange as that may sound.

"This one is very conscious of public image. He needs some secrets." I say as the boy begins to wander back over to present his findings.

"He needs feeding is what he needs." Jim mutters to me under his breath as Robin draws level with us. I suppose he is rather short and slim for his age.

"What have you discovered?" I inquire. The boy indicates the evidence bag and then begins what appears to be a very measured speech of his deductions.

"The owner of this ring is a Russian mobster as evidenced by the Cyrillic alphabet inscription on the inside, along with its style, size and material. Judging from the size and style of the ring, I'd say the perpetrator is male, roughly in his mid to late thirties, is about six-two or six-four and left-handed." Jim Gordon is compelled to interrupt my partner's flow with a very obvious question.

"How do you know he was left-handed? A ring can't tell you which hand it's been on." The boy responds with a puzzled expression in such a way as to suggest the answer is elementary. He holds the bag out for the man to scrutinize.

"It's a wedding ring, Sir. The inscription inside reads _to my darling Sergei, I love you Natalia_. I believe the victim's blood on this ring would confirm a proficiency at punching with left hand would it not?" Robin is not being facetious or condescending in his manner; he is courteous, something Jim is definitely responding well to. Instead of being embarrassed, he nods in appreciation of the boy's explanation.

"Yes, quite right. Please go on."

"So, based on all this information, I would have to say the individual we're looking for is Sergei Kruchev, a one-time super heavyweight boxing champion who was reputed for his southpaw style, now turned enforcer for Mikhail Kafelnikov, head of the Russian crime syndicate operating out of The Bowery. You'll probably find him at Barney's Bar in the Upper-East Side." Robin continues with a slight smile. Jim looks both astonished and very impressed with my new boy's detective skills. I must admit I too am impressed; he has really studied the intelligence reports I gave him. It may have taken a trip to the cave for me to arrive at the same conclusion. Jim has to ask.

"Why Barney's Bar?"

"Poker game on Thursdays. The ring's been pawned at least four times going off the typical scratches such jewellery gets sitting on a pawn-broker's shelf all week and that poker game is the only one that will accept something like this for collateral. Plus, Kruchev is a notorious gambler and his game of choice is poker. Seeing as his address is listed only one block over from Barney's and tonight is Thursday it seems only logical that, despite losing his ring, his compulsion to gamble will compel him to attend tonight's big game. He'll probably use the money he got from the victim to buy his way in."

I turn to my friend after a few long moments of silence. "What do you think Jim?" The man nods his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the boy's even as he reaches for his radio to relay the information. Robin looks at me for approval. I give him a restrained thumb-up gesture and watch his smile break out into a grin in the aftermath. The boy wants my praise. He has earned it tonight, beyond doubt. Once two cars have been dispatched to Barney's Bar, Jim is quick to offer his thanks.

"That was remarkable, young man. I can see why our friend here selected you to be his partner. I look forward to seeing more of you over the coming weeks." The man tells Robin with the utmost sincerity when shaking the boy's hand.

"Thank you, Sir. I was glad to be of assistance." Thus far, his manners have been impeccable. It bodes well for his future relationship with Jim.

"We have to go now, Jim. If you require our assistance on anything else, do not hesitate to contact us." I say before turning and walking towards the edge of the roof. I motion for my partner to follow. There is a quick rush of feet and suddenly he is beside me, ready to leap into the abyss.

"Enjoy yourselves." I hear Jim call to us before we are out of earshot. The night is still young and this boy has something to prove to me. Whilst transiting across Gotham's skyline using grapnels, I am quick to note this Robin's particular style of movement is not unlike Dick's, but has the practiced air of Jason's. It is very odd and somehow appropriate that both his predecessors' distinct styles form part of his own identity. The city is quiet tonight, but still offers ample opportunity for my partner to showcase his other talents. In The Narrows, a woman is being assaulted by a gang of heavily tattooed men, possibly part of the Hispanic group known as _Los Diablos Silencos_, The Silent Devils, a gang prevalent in this area of Gotham. The probability of such a crime degenerating into gang-rape and then murder is alarmingly high. As such, we enter the fray as soon as possible, descending from above like birds of prey attempting to take their quarry by surprise. The tactic proves effective.

I block access from the woman while Robin reduces their number. The boy does not wait, immediately deploying his collapsible bow-staff to account for his lack of muscle-mass, and cutting down two of them with a simple but efficient drill. It involves striking low on the initial target, usually the diaphragm to wind them instantly although the boy opts just for the ribs, and then blocking the second target's counter-strike and delivering a high strike to the temple or bridge of the nose. This drill focuses more on technique than brute strength to put down targets, requiring perfect use of pivots and channelling of all available bodyweight to ensure effectiveness. Robin performs it flawlessly before dodging attempted blows from the three remaining hostiles. One telegraphed haymaker allows my partner to parry the blow and utilize the assailant's momentum to launch them over his shoulder and into the wall whilst another more conservative kick gives him sufficient leeway to step inside the opponent and deal a devastating hit to their exposed groin area. And so, after only twenty seconds, he only has one person to contend with from five. Impressive.

This final opponent tries to even the playing field by producing a handgun, but Robin is unperturbed by the surprise. The boy glances briefly to his left knowing the gunman's curiosity will cause him to do the same. When he does lose his focus on my partner for that split second, Robin cracks away the weapon with his staff before delivering a flying kick, connecting with the target's lower jaw and breaking it in the aftermath. All hostiles are incapacitated and no longer pose a threat to the victim's safety. Arriving at that stage with the minimum level of fanfare and fuss proves to me that the boy is ideal for this life and this work. The woman is attended to by the police officers who arrived on scene only minutes later. GCPD are conducting more wide-sweeping patrols of the city than ever before; six months ago, they would not have been anywhere near this side of the river. It is satisfying to see Jim's efforts only serve to improve the force's efficiency. It bodes well. Once the woman is in transit to the hospital, we return to normal patrol duties.

It is another four hours until we return to the cave. In that space of time, we have foiled two robberies, stopped three additional assaults and gathered preliminary intelligence reports on several criminal rackets currently operating in the city. Throughout the entire night, Robin has conducted himself with the utmost decorum and admirable professionalism. His fighting 'prowess' as Jim called it has been greatly enhanced by his global trip and dealings with King Cobra. Although slightly wooden at times in his approach and being somewhat awkward at executing paired manoeuvres, he is more than capable of patrolling solo. His input in reconnaissance and compiling information on suspects also gives me a strong sense of security about taking business-related trips and leaving Gotham in his care. My only real problem with him is his quiet nature.

During the car-rides and transiting through the city, the boy is practically mute; I am used to my partners talking and filling the silence; this Robin does not do that, preferring instead to reflect on matters. In that way, he is very like me and I find I do not like the dynamic it creates. He does not exercise his tongue during battle to deliver quips either, nor does he have any nicknames for me besides Batman or Bruce. Perhaps he is still nervous despite his probationary period being most definitely finished; he has proven himself worthy of the mantle. His training for the role was almost three-times as severe as his predecessors, the examinations themselves demanding a pass mark of ninety-eight per-cent or above; anything below was considered a fail and therefore unacceptable. He did not fail a single written exam, although several re-tests were required on the physical training aspects; he is not the athlete Dick was or the iron-willed juggernaut Jason made himself. Added to that fact is this is not my ward as previously; this boy and I have a strictly professional arrangement, not a life together; he has a father and a step-mother to go home to every night. Because of this, my scrutiny of his behaviour in the field is incredibly intense. That he performs as well as he does under my gaze and lofty standard is nothing short of astonishing.

"Tim?"

"Yeah Bruce?"

"How do you think tonight went?"

"I think well. What do you think?"

"I think you performed very well and definitely left an impression on the commissioner."

"You don't think I was too cocky, do you?"

"I did not get that impression from you."

"Was there anything I did wrong?

"Not that I can recall in any great detail." That is a slight omission. I did note two instances where I believed the boy's behaviour was not of the expected standard; the first when applying restraints to a suspect until police arrival (his body position left him vulnerable to attack from the perpetrator), and the second when side-stepping an opponent instead of simply delivering a knock-out blow. Those minor incidents aside, I cannot fault his overall performance. We arrive at the cave a few moments after finishing our conversation.

"I'm gonna go home now, unless you need me for anything else tonight." Tim informs me once he is changed into his civilian clothes. His Robin suit is neatly packed in the holdall he brings with him every evening, alongside some ancillaries. I too am now in civilian dress and about to attend to tonight's intelligence as he tells me this.

"No. You can go. I'll see you tomorrow night, Tim." I pause briefly. "Are you sure you don't want Alfred to drive you home?" The boy shakes his head.

"It's three in the morning; Alfred needs his sleep too. I'll just take the bike."

"Be careful. Despite the hour there may still be some traffic."

"I'll be fine. See you later." With that said, my newly christened fifteen-year-old partner turns his back on me and exits the cave; he keeps his bike in the house garage instead of the cave floor. I watch him leave and cannot help but agree with Jim…

The boy needs to eat more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Driving Lessons**

The boy is nervous. He should not be; nothing will go wrong. When I look at him, I can see slight tremors starting in his hands. He is not looking at me. His eyes are fixed unblinkingly on the road ahead. I lean over.

"I think it's alright to let it out of second gear now, Tim." His immediate reaction is to grip the steering wheel tighter. He will not take his eyes off the road.

"I don't want to go too fast." He tells me, trying to sound firm.

"Twenty miles an hour is not a dangerous speed, Tim. You know where the brake is, should you need to use it." The boy nods in agreement.

"Right." Nothing happens. Tim's hand fails to leave the steering wheel.

"Put it into third gear, Tim. Remember the procedure for changing gear?" I decide to speak my last sentence in a softer, less indifferent tone of voice. Perhaps it will ease the boy. He nods.

"Yeah..."

"Tell me everything you do."

"I need to speed up to make the gear change necessary." He says. I feel a slight increase in the car's overall speed. I nod.

"Then I need to put my foot down on the clutch pedal, take my other foot completely off the gas and make the gear change as smoothly as possible." I hear the engine quiet and watch the boy make a perfect, if hesitant transition to third gear. Again I nod.

"Now I just need to gently ease pressure off the clutch pedal and put my other foot back down on the accelerator." He performs the last sequence of movements with excellent timing and control. I tap the dashboard with my hand.

"Very well done, Tim. Now, bring us to a gentle stop." The boy decides to allow his control to slip somewhat, braking with an unpleasant juddering motion than a smooth halt, but he does stop the car. I see him wince at the noise.

"That wasn't great, was it?" He asks, finally letting his gaze drift from the road to my face. I make a dismissive hand gesture.

"Never mind. Now, back into neutral, apply the handbrake and kill the ignition in that order please." The boy does as instructed. When the car is finally silent, Tim removes his hands, slouches back in his seat and lets out a sigh of relief. When he looks over at me again, I offer him a small smile.

"Congratulations, Tim; you've just completed your first driving lesson. How did it feel?" The boy shakes his head.

"Freaking terrifying. My heart's going a hundred miles a minute. What did you say you drive the Batmobile at, one hundred-and-twenty miles an hour?"

"Don't concern yourself with things like that, not now."

We get out of the Rolls-Royce and find Alfred standing close by with a relieved smile of his own; he was awfully particular I did not allow the boy to drive the Rolls, but I was insistent. I assume the idea of permitting a fifteen-year-old boy with no driving experience whatsoever to command a vehicle that has an estimated worth of almost half-a-million dollars did not sit well with the old man. The fact I could easily buy a replacement was not his chief concern; Alfred has been caring for that car since I was born; he cherishes it almost as much as me, although it is less argumentative and stubborn.

"You looked surprisingly adept at handling such a monstrosity, Master Tim, especially since it was your first time. Bravo." Alfred says presenting the boy with a glass of lemonade. He has neglected to bring me one, his idea of a dignified protest at my actions. I do not begrudge him. Tim's hand is still trembling slightly as he takes control of the glass.

"Thank you, Alfred. I'm glad you managed not to have a heart attack standing here." The boy says taking a sip.

"Either Master Bruce is a far more competent instructor than I thought or you are a far less reckless youth than your peers. I am inclined to believe the latter." The old man shoots me a small smile.

"Slur me all you like, Alfred. You will find yourself disappointed when I am proven faultless."

"There exists no such man, Sir. Even you have faults common to the rest of us mere mortals."

"Isn't it dinnertime?" Tim says to bring our banter to a shuddering halt. Both Alfred and I look at him with something approaching irritation. Dick and Jason never seemed to mind our little exchanges. They would often join in. This boy does not share that similar vein of humour. He needs to become less wooden and more relaxed. Seeing our thinly veiled annoyance at his interruption, Tim adopts an embarrassed look. I believe we still intimidate him to some degree. He is not afraid of criminals, only those he needs to impress. I break the tension by patting him on the shoulder.

"You're right Tim. Shall we go back to the house?" I turn to look at the old man who bows his head.

"Yes Sir. However, this time, I believe I should conduct the driving. What do you say Master Tim?"

"Yeah, probably for the best."

It is close to two in the morning. Tim and I are on patrol in The Narrows, following a large-scale investigation into money laundering. We have been conducting the current study of this particular operation for the last six weeks and have collected a wealth of information. At present, we have traced the nucleus of the operation to a known philanderer and habitual criminal called Greg Taylor, the proprietor of a laundrette on Cherry Street, a once thriving area of commerce. It is something of a novelty to find a money-laundering operation under the guise of a laundrette. I find myself with a slight smile as we slip into the alleyway adjacent to the building. The boy notices this.

"What is it?" He asks. I gesture at the building.

"Laundering through a laundrette." Tim grins at my explanation. It is one of the rare instances in recent weeks I have seen him smile at all during work. He seems to take all this rather seriously for a teenager.

"Funny. So what's the plan?"

"Taylor is the intelligence in this operation. Without him, the entire infrastructure currently in place to move the money will fall apart. What needs to happen now is the gathering of hard evidence. Because he used so many false leads and aliases as well as middlemen, Taylor will think nobody will trace the money back to his establishment. I believe he has ledgers and some of the money itself somewhere inside this building. All we need is an excuse to search these premises."

"So we need to engineer something to occur here to let Gordon get inside. Why didn't you brief me about this before patrol?"

"You need to learn about improvisation, Robin. You cling too fiercely to planning. Observe how I create trouble to exploit." I proceed to step out from the alleyway's shadows, affect a low-brow manner of speaking and shout at the top of my lungs.

"Gotham Knights suck ass! They got no defence, no offence and their wide receiver's a damn joke! I ain't ever seen a worse performance than against Kings! How many freakin' tackles they miss?"

"Hey, you better shut your mouth!" Some anonymous voice calls from an open window across the street.

"Yeah? You gonna make me, asshole? Greg Taylor ain't afraid of no man!" I yell back.

"That a fact? We'll see about that huh?" I step back into the shadows. Tim is both stunned and bewildered by my actions. It is clear he does not understand. "There are two rival gangs in this neighbourhood, Robin, The Chasers and The Cardinals. Chasers support Gotham Knights, almost religiously. Cardinals support Gotham Rocketeers and always start fights after matches. Greg Taylor is a Cardinal; those individuals now on route to this laundrette are most likely to be Chasers. Word will soon spread, more gang members from both factions will come and eventually…"

"All hell breaks loose and Greg Taylor is cited as the source of all the violence. And then we raid his dirty laundrette." Tim pauses to consider something. "Does he really talk like that?"

"Surprisingly, yes."

What happens next is a textbook example of riot escalation as more and more gang members pour into the street in a conflict that started with only four people. After less than twenty minutes, there are at least one hundred people drawing battle lines and threatening to kill rival members. All this will take now is the right spark. When Greg Taylor wades onto the scene, the powder keg of human emotion is ignited. A mass brawl ensues. Gordon has already been informed and patrol cars dispatched along with riot specialist equipment. The boy and I sit in wait, watching for signs of violence and brutality being taken too far. However, the scene is exactly as I had anticipated; the fighting, and therefore the level of violence displayed, is superficial at best. The individuals involved will be bruised and bloodied in the aftermath, but nothing more serious. It is clear, even from my current vantage point, that the majority of the participants are intoxicated and can scarcely coordinate their actions. In some ways, despite this very scene being one I am working hard to prevent occurring in this city, this whole situation is amusing. The combatants overly telegraphed hits, misses and subsequent falls are all in line with a Laurel and Hardy or Three Stooges film, a masterpiece of precision and timing for comedic effect. My partner does not seem to share this opinion. The boy is always so tense, so on edge in this environment. I am cautious, but I am rarely tense when facing Gotham's army of scum and criminal fraternities. Tim must learn to relax a little and enjoy these moments.

The GCPD response time is impressive. Patrol cars and riot vans are on site within six minutes and gas grenades are being utilized to bring the masses under swift control. Arrests are made quickly and with little fanfare, the Miranda Rights echoing around the streets with fervour and conviction. I find myself in staunch admiration of these officers and their professionalism. The GCPD is now an efficient and tight unit, operating with a satisfying smoothness to their battle rhythm and processes. Despite the lingering traces of corruption still haunting their ranks, Gordon and his men have done a sterling job in helping people erase their previous opinions on law enforcement and make them look towards a brighter future. We wait until all outstanding personnel have vacated the scene before investigating the laundrette.

Officers are still wandering round the business with forensic kits as we begin to conduct our own investigations and analyses. They pay us little notice, proof that our presence is now seen as an aid rather than a hindrance or obstruction of justice. The brawl spilled into the laundrette via a smashed window and was therefore deemed within police jurisdiction, a calculated movement that thankfully played out exactly as intended. I allow Tim to run with the forensic analysis.

He instantly discovers what the professionals have missed through no fault of their own. Tim has found the ledgers that chronicle months of transactions through the business. He has uncovered these essential pieces of evidence because he is trained in what to look for. Unlike his predecessors, this boy's training in criminology and forensics was far more in-depth and demanding. The pass mark for his written exams on these subjects was ninety-eight per cent. The pass mark for his practical exams, investigating and processing a simulated crime scene for evidence and then formulating a plausible court case, required a one hundred per cent success rate. On all these exams Tim scored one hundred per cent. He is driven beyond the others for reasons known only to himself. Many key pieces of evidence during the practical assessments were carefully hidden. The majority of experienced homicide detectives would have missed these clues, only because they do not fit patterns of typical criminal behaviour or make themselves easily found. Tim is a true detective, almost without peer. He dissects the information in the ledgers on sight, committing the most pertinent points to memory. He then hands them over to the department. Apparently, we now have we need to close this case. I trust his judgement on the situation. A short time later, we leave.

"Tim?" I say to initiate a conversation on route back to the cave. Tim immediately gives me his full attentions.

"Yeah Bruce?"

"You put in another fine performance tonight. I hope you realize all your efforts have not gone unnoticed."

"You can relax, Bruce; I'm not going to shun you because you don't praise me every day of the week."

"I know that. Your training demonstrated that quite aptly. I want you to know that, out of all the Robins I have worked alongside, you are by far the most cerebral and level-headed. Both are qualities I need for the current environment in Gotham."

"You mean the network of gangs that runs the whole way between the city limits. You need me to help you implement a workable strategy."

"It's more than that, Tim. I need you to implement your own strategies to coincide with mine." This statement seems to unsettle the boy. He sounds uneasy in responding to it.

"You need me to help you make a plan?"

"Yes. Are you up to the task?"

"Yeah, I just thought you were the ideas man and I was the guy to put them into action."

"We BOTH need to have those abilities. I realise that now. It has been an inherent mistake I made with your predecessors, one that ultimately caused a rift between us. I will not make that error again, not with you."

"Fair enough."

"There is only one thing I need you to do for me in the meantime."

"What's that?" I smile before answering.

"Cheer up."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Bruce explores the price of obsession.**

**Dedication**

I have been back in Gotham for almost an hour. A business conference in Zurich – a totally unnecessary luxury for a shareholders meeting in my opinion – is responsible for my three-day absence. In my stead, Tim has been over-watching the city. Alfred has told me of the boy's capabilities in such a demanding role. The old man finds his talents commendable. From what information I have been able to obtain, Tim is doing an excellent job. The boy is different from the others. I find him very interesting. My arrival back at the manor is greeted by Alfred who takes my luggage without a word. He knows what I am about to do. He is intuitive like that. I head down to the cave.

I am not surprised by Tim's presence. The boy is in civilian clothes and sat at the computer terminal, apparently mired in thought. It is almost midnight – my return flight was delayed by poor weather conditions – and yet my partner is still hard at work. He must be glad it is Friday night. When I draw closer, Tim notices my presence and jerks his head to look at me. His serious expression fades. A happy, unforced smile appears. He waves. I wave back.

"Enjoy your holiday, Bruce?"

"I would hardly describe it as such."

"Yeah, you enjoyed it alright. I'm just finishing up here so if you want the cave to yourself..."

What are you working on exactly?"

The boy seems tense. I notice the awkward way he is sitting, with his right leg up on the chair seat and hunched forward; he has sustained injuries. My eyes focus in on his split lip and the bruise forming by his right eye. He is aware I have observed these incongruities. He gestures to the screen.

"There's a guy I've been following. He seems connected, ties to several illicit operations including racketeering and prostitution. I'm just stuck trying to figure out where he fits in with the other big players in the city. All the other criminal elements involved in those areas don't have him on their payroll."

"Have you ever considered you may be mistaken?"

"Bruce, I'm telling you this guy is involved. He is deeply involved. And he's weak; apply the right kind of pressure and this guy will crack, give up his associates, give names and numbers. The proof is here, the hard evidence is here. I just have to find it."

I believe the boy, naturally. His detective instincts and analytical skills rival my own. If he has a lead, a credible source to trace, I will support him. But I can also notice his obsession. No doubt he has been here, thinking, for hours. He is visibly tired and suffering. Despite his maturity and intelligence, he is still only fifteen; he needs sleep. I find it very odd to have to remind him of these facts.

"I am sure it can wait until tomorrow, Tim. Go home."

Tim shakes his head and then his finger before tapping it against the desktop. "I know it's there. I've almost got it, almost, almost got the answer. I swear it's on the tip of my tongue, literally." I respond my resting my hand on his shoulder. He stops thinking and simply stares up at me, waiting.

"I would really like you to go home and get some sleep. Don't make me order you, Tim." I do not say it with any kind of irritation. The boy can see this and nods.

"Yeah, you're right. Sorry. How about before I go, you tell me about your trip?"

"I can assure you Tim, it was exactly the same as every other continental congregation I have ever been to as Wayne Enterprises CEO." I say it in such a way as to suggest any further discussion on the matter will not be wise. I do not care for dull small talk concerning affairs the boy has no stake in. It is immaterial. Tim is of a different opinion. He is...not as intrusive as Dick or as frustrating as Jason, but there is something that disagrees with me. I sometimes believe it to be the growing concern we share more than intelligence and deductive reasoning; he is also often serious to the point of farce...like me. But I do not think this often. It is more likely his nervous, youthful energy and natural curiosity that I find irritating; the boy must know everything.

"And what are they like?" Tim asks, having decided not to recognize my hint.

"Ask your father."

"I'm pretty sure he's never been to Europe in his life, much less a boy's club meeting at some private retreat. Nice try though. Why don't you want to tell me?" Tim is attempting to force me into a conversation he controls. He does it often, but fortunately seldom succeeds. This time I will indulge him somewhat.

"Because it looks like it hurts for you to take a breath, let alone talk." What I have said is true. The boy's breathing is laboured to the point I feel he must have cracked or broken a rib earlier in the night. I am certain Tim can hear the concern in my voice because he frowns at me. It is a sign he is embarrassed by his perceived weakness.

"It was this guy I've been talking about. He sucker-punched me with brass knuckles. Can you imagine? Just one lucky left-hook and I'm down on my ass. Sucks." I frown as a name for his suspect instantly enters my head. The man is Antonio Palazzo and he was once a high-level enforcer for crime boss Luciano Fognini, a former major player in Gotham whom Dick and I put away some years ago. Palazzo also shared the suspect's penchant for a cheap shot with brass knuckles. It is a conceivable link. I pull up a chair and sit opposite my partner.

"Describe him for me."

"He was a big guy, maybe six-five, bald and built like a bull for his size. He must've been a boxer or something because his body attack was so strong it was unreal." Tim says clutching his right side after a particularly sudden intake of breath. That is Antonio Palazzo. He has returned to Gotham after a lengthy incarceration. The boy is right: leveraged from the right angle, Palazzo will talk against his current employers immediately. Loyalty is just a word to him, not a virtue. I regard Tim's visible injuries again. I do not like to see him hurt this way. His distress upsets me though I continue to project a calm aura for his sake.

"I know who you are looking for, Tim." The boy stares at me in an even mix of astonishment and expectation. For the moment, his injuries are forgotten as he awaits my answer. "The man you're after is called Antonio Palazzo, a former associate of crime boss Luciano Fognini and Olympic Heavyweight Gold medallist at the World Amateur Games in boxing. He has just finished serving two-thirds of a ten-year tariff in Gotham State Penitentiary for extortion, attempted murder and illegal arms trading under Fognini's rule." Tim nods in understanding.

"I haven't studied the Fognini case files yet. All this is in there, isn't it?" He checks. I nod.

"Yes. However, we can find a contact or residential address for him _tomorrow_. You should go home now. Alfred has treated you I take it?" Tim nods again.

"Yeah, he gave me medication as well. I still need to take it." The boy says producing several colourful pills from his shirt pocket for my inspection. They are all powerful painkillers, ones easily capable of quelling his body's agonised cries from every shallow breath. I frown.

"Why have you not taken them yet?"

"Alfred said they make you drowsy: I can't think when I'm all cotton-headed." Neither can many of us, however that is rather the point of such medication. They allow the sufferer to relax as well as cut stress levels so the body can heal effectively. I have taken many of them in my tenure as Batman, although it is often that my mind remains unimpeded by the drugs' side effects. I do not like the idea of my partner suffering unnecessarily for the price of a lead. It is a price not worth paying, despite the potential benefits. Again this is obsession manifesting itself. I do not want this for him.

"Well, take them now then." I suggest whilst reaching over for the untouched tumbler of water no doubt left by the old man some time ago. I reach over and hand him the glass. Tim inclines his head before knocking back the pills with a swallow of water. He closes his eyes for a few moments and a familiar silence falls on us as I wait for them to open again. When they do, I give him a nod of satisfaction. "Good boy."

It is close to one in the morning. I have taken the Bentley and given my partner a ride home to save him the trouble of aggravating his wounds. He is already nodding as I kill the engine. The medication is beginning to take hold of his brain and encourage it to sleep. When it becomes clear that Tim is unable to walk himself to the front door, I choose to assist him. I round the passenger door, unfasten his seatbelt and support him out of the car. I encourage him to lean on me as we approach the door. Despite the influence of the drugs in his system, it is readily apparent to me how exhausted he is. He is having trouble co-ordinating his feet as we walk. Eventually we reach the door. The boy drunkenly fishes for his house keys in his back pocket before handing them to me. I open the door and silently enter the apartment with Tim in tow. To save time and minimise the chances of waking Jack Drake, I scoop him up in my arms and carefully carry him to his room. He does not object to this action, being too close to unconscious to care much. I remove his shoes and lay him down on top of his bed.

"Thanks Bruce." He mumbles to me in a faraway voice.

"It's important to rest now Tim. I shall call you tomorrow if you're needed."

"'Kay."

"Goodnight Tim."

"Night."

It has just passed two A.M. I am in the living room, contemplating the extent of my new boy's workaholic tendencies and what possible impact such unhealthy dedication would have on such a mind. All I can as a potential outcome is myself. I do not wish Tim to follow in my footsteps and have this existence consume him like oxygen to a hungry flame. We can share traits and method, but not obsessions. Those are mine and mine alone. I must make a greater effort with his development, encourage other social outlets for him to pursue. There must be clubs or groups with whom he shares a common bond. He needs to seek them out for the good of his health. I do not want to find him down there in such a state ever again.

"Is everything alright, Master Bruce?" Alfred inquires from behind my shoulder.

"Have I chosen the right partner, Alfred?" I ask staring into the fire I have just stoked.

"Undoubtedly, Sir." The old man says without any hesitation. I frown.

"I fear for him."

"You shouldn't."

"And why is that, old friend?"

"Because the boy is more scared for you than you are for him." I blink at his explanation. His statement does not seem to make any sense, no matter my interpretation.

"I don't understand."

"His dedication does not stem from obsession like yours, but rather the desire to free you from beneath its burden. Master Timothy wishes to help you bear the load. He hates to see you brood: I can see it in his eyes."

"Are you suggesting he is only working himself so hard so that he spares me some of that same work?" I say trying to supress the incredulity I feel from such a notion. I cannot fathom a more twisted kind of favour than what the old man is suggesting.

"Let me ask you this: would you have been working down there right this very moment if the boy had not been?" Yes, of course. There is always work to do.

"Perhaps."

"The answer is 'yes', Master Bruce. You are obsessed beyond reason, despite your attempts to change. Now he is trying to help you by applying the same logic you do: if he works longer, you are required to work less." It is simple logic, the sort that is so basic that it appears entirely flawless. Perhaps it is. I shake my head.

"I can't allow him to continue this."

"He is rather more difficult to dissuade from a course of action than Dick or Jason, Sir. His stubbornness rivals yours in many respects." I smirk.

"Then what do you suggest?"

"Begging your pardon, Master Bruce, but I was always led to believe only you could contend with a prodigal genius." He says. I turn to look at him. We both smile. Tim is a born genius and will one day overtake me as the world's finest detective. It is an inevitable future that both the old man and I believe in. I shrug.

"Usually they're on the opposing side."

"Well, maybe you should take your own advice and sleep on it. Inspiration is often said to come to those in dreams."

"I suppose you are right." I say getting to my feet. We stare at one another in a short silence. He knows exactly what I am going to do now.

"You're going to the cave, aren't you Sir?"

"I need to conduct some research." Alfred sighs before nodding in understanding.

"Of course you do, Master Bruce, of course you do."

I am a creature of habit. Neither he nor anyone else can change that. Dedication and Obsession are similar but they do not go hand-in-hand as inseparable entities. My crusade is an obsession: Tim is merely dedicated to the cause. As I begin my descent into the dark recesses to further feed my compulsions, I am comforted by this distinction. At least the boy can see the light. Mine disappeared a long time ago.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Here's some more Bruce and Tim bonding. Set amongst the backdrop of the festive season. Bruce tries to maintain professionalism between them. Alfred offers someone else's opinion on the tactic with expected results. Enjoy.**

**Tim 4**

Tonight is Christmas Eve. I am in the Narrows, concluding my most recent narcotics and human trafficking investigations with the assistance of the GCPD. I have given Tim a period of extended leave to be with his father and friends during the holiday season. The boy will return to his duties as Robin in the New Year and hopefully be refreshed as a result. I do not require such a lengthy reprieve. Snow falls steadily as I wait in the shadows of an abandoned bus depot which is currently being used as both a safe house and a warehouse for Warren Fenchurch's latest shipments. From recent surveillance of the compound, I have ascertained the presence of twenty-five young women from Eastern Europe who are to be sold into the sex industry and a minimum of two metric tons of Columbian cocaine contained within the main building.

This combination of goods is somewhat unusual in Gotham, but something of a trademark to such a notorious career criminal as Fenchurch. His disregard for human life is well-known in his usual stomping grounds of mainland Europe and South America where he has evaded law enforcement officials and capture for years now. The percentage of fatalities normally experienced in his human cargo transportations is almost forty per cent. Many die of narcotic-related illnesses and symptoms. His decision to try and ply his trade in the North American market was a well-calculated and smart move to further expand his business interests and criminal empire. Unfortunately he elected to funnel his goods through Gotham instead of neighbouring cities or states. He decided to test claims that Gotham is a trafficker's graveyard and he decided to test me. As a consequence, he is about to lend his name to yet another headstone in my personal cemetery. Because, within sixty minutes I will have buried both him and his fifteen-year operation like they never existed.

Gordon is preparing his tactical response teams for a war of attrition. I have told him to rendezvous at my current location in less than fifty-five minutes. He is unaware that I am already here and preparing to cut the war short with a little attrition of my own. He and his men may consider it my Christmas present to both them and their families. No-one is going to die tonight…but some people are about to get seriously hurt. I enter the building via the ventilation duct on the roof. Fenchurch's efforts to maximise profit and minimise cost are about to prove costly. He has no security cameras in place, no motion sensors and the twenty-two men he is using to guard the depot and its goods are equipped with basic flak jackets and light-weight assault rifles only. They are all of a military background and possess some form of specialist training for these kind of scenarios, but they are not the best available. Therefore they are not sufficient to stop me.

I am also aware through my surveillance of the site that Fenchurch is also in the depot and perhaps further abusing the women he has already denied freedom and sold into slavery. I will leave him for last. Since he is shielded from immediate view by a pre-fabricated office structure, I cannot envisage him escaping before I am finished with his guards.

I incapacitate the five men on the upper level of the depot first, subjecting them to a series of nerve strikes that first disable their vocal chords before knocking them unconscious within two seconds. Once they are down and their weapon systems are unloaded and secured from use, I drop down a level to the ground floor. Here there are the remaining seventeen men. They are mostly standing in groups around the shipping crates and containers. The majority of them are inattentive and complacent of their surroundings. I crouch in the darkness of a secluded corner and consider. As I begin to deliberate the pros and cons of a full-frontal assault against that of a more complex scheme of manoeuvres, I become aware of a presence beside me. I am not alarmed, merely surprised.

"You shouldn't open your presents before tomorrow." I whisper as the boy's favourite aftershave clogs my nostrils with a renewed vigour that can only come from a fresh bottle.

"I didn't want to get hit for being too inconspicuous." Robin replies. I can of course see the boy's logic. Since I know only he wears this atrocious scent, I will immediately treat him as a non-hostile regardless of circumstance.

"You should be with your father at home."

"He's asleep already. I thought you could use a hand." I am more than capable of tackling this scenario on my own. Fenchurch might injure one or two of the women in trying to escape, but the situation could be adequately contained without external assistance. However, the boy's presence negates even that contingency. I appreciate the gesture. It is not often I receive such gifts, even in this holiday season.

"Fenchurch is sequestered in the office to your right. He's armed with at least a 9mm semi-automatic pistol and has access to twenty-five vulnerable hostages. I need you to negate the threat he poses whilst I deal with his other personnel." I tell him without feeling the need to repeat myself.

"Do you need him eliminated from play before you make your move?"

"I need him away from those hostages. You have twenty seconds before I break cover. Go now." I watch as the boy suddenly rushes out of the blackness in a silent blur of red and green, evading the attentions of all seventeen individuals to his immediate front in getting to the office. He has ten seconds. Suddenly he is inside the office and I detect the faint sounds of a muffled struggle taking place. Five seconds. No shots are fired. Time is up.

I begin my assault by rolling two CS gas pellets into the middle of the room before following up with three batarangs that all find a target to eliminate. Moments after the projectiles hit, the pellets detonate and the whole space becomes engulfed by a choking white cloud. I don my respirator, arm more batarangs and enter the cloud. There is chaos within its confines. The fourteen remaining combatants are struggling to breathe and streaming at the eyes from the debilitating effects of the gas. Rifles litter the ground from where some have lost hold of their weapons in the confusion while those that have managed to keep hold are in no position to fire them effectively. I waste no time in trimming the numbers to less than four courtesy of three more batarangs, five nerve strikes, two straight rights to the jaw, one uppercut and three spinning heel kicks. I ensure I connect fully with every blow dealt to ensure success.

By now, the cloud has dissipated enough to allow the remaining individuals to regain both their equilibrium and control of their weapons. Despite this revitalised awareness, I am able to circumvent any challenge presented by simply using my remaining projectiles to disarm them and then implementing a standard block, arm bar and take-down sequence to end any hope of resistance. I remove my respirator and move towards the office. Inside I find Robin fastening an unconscious Fenchurch's wrists with plasticuffs whilst wide-eyed and terrified-looking women look on. It is clear they do not trust either him or me. It is understandable given their ordeals. I turn to the boy.

"Have you tried out your Russian on them?" I ask. He offers a sheepish smile.

"I think my pronunciation still needs some work. It didn't look like they understood any of it beyond 'hello'." It is expected: the boy only began learning the language six weeks ago and has had his schoolwork and duties to contend with as well. I am pleased that he had the confidence to attempt communication. I incline my head in gratitude before turning to address the crowd staring us down.

"_We are not here to hurt you."_ I begin in the most widely used and understood Russian dialect, one used frequently on television programmes and news broadcasts, _"The police will arrive shortly. They will talk to you about what has happened and help you get back to your families and loved ones. Until they arrive, we shall wait with you, to ensure your safety." _Relief starts to break out on many of the concerned faces confronting me. Those that still look apprehensive are quickly assured by their neighbours using other less common dialects and minority languages until everyone seems happier. One of the older women, roughly thirty or so, gestures to Robin with an air of curiosity.

"_Is he your son?" _She inquires. I look at Tim and find he does not understand the query posed. I consider. I nod.

"_Yes."_ The woman smiles at me with a warmth and understanding that can only come from a mother.

"_You should be very proud of him. He just needs some elocution lessons." _I smile back and incline my head.

"_I shall bear that in mind."_

It is almost ninety minutes later. Gordon and his men arrived some thirty minutes ago to find the hostages safe, the narcotics secured and all involved personnel, including Fenchurch, neatly arranged into three ranks in the centre of the depot's ground floor. He immediately informs me that I should have waited. He chides the boy for enabling me. Jim is pleased though. With Christmas Day only hours from now, he is glad he does not need to ring the coroner or phone for an ambulance. Nobody was hurt and everything is ready for arraignment and trial work to commence. Regardless of how I have controlled the situation with the boy's invaluable assistance, I apologize to Jim. He deserves more notification than I have given him. This case is an international one and Fenchurch's conviction would be headline news around the globe. I tell Gordon to take all the credit, but he refuses. He will mention my involvement in order to further deter international criminals from taking up residence in our city. It is a smart move and one I feel obliged to agree with, given my lack of disclosure. After an additional twenty minutes, we are given leave to depart. We bid Jim and the department a happy Christmas and exit the depot.

"How did you get here?" I ask as we walk through the deepening snow that has settled in the past two hours since my arrival.

"I took the Redbird. Did you bring the car?" I did not. I departed straight from the office to my safe house in the Bowery utilising my vagrant disguise to remain unrecognised. From there, I conducted the final stages of my pre-operational planning, consumed a protein and calorie-enriched drink and then suited up for the evening. I had intended to radio Alfred and ask him to send the car on auto-pilot to predetermined coordinates in the city as soon as matters with Fenchurch were concluded. However, I believe I have a simpler idea.

"No. Would you mind driving me back to the cave?" The boy shrugs.

"If you really don't mind being a passenger in a car with a fifteen-year-old boy at the wheel." I have every confidence in Tim's driving abilities. He is very capable. I smirk.

"Consider it an early Christmas present."

The boy has parked his vehicle in an abandoned garage complex less than two city blocks from the depot. Despite being both large and a garish shade of red, he has managed to render it largely inconspicuous, something of a minor miracle. We get inside, Tim fires up the engine and then carefully manoeuvres it onto the road. For the first five minutes of our journey, I am content to observe his driving skills. He still drives with both hands on the wheel, always covers the brake pedal with his foot and is constantly peering in his mirrors. I am amazed he has not either lapsed into bad habits or copied the worst of mine. I suppose it is different because this is his car and therefore his responsibility. He conducts the gear changes required with both a relaxed smooth sequence of actions and the utmost care when releasing his foot off the clutch. Alfred would be proud.

"So what have you got planned for tomorrow?" The boy inquires when we are a few miles from the city. I have nothing planned. I attended the Wayne Enterprises Christmas party three days ago and am now free of obligations for the next week. The house is devoid of decoration and I intend to spend the majority of tomorrow resting. I will close down the Fenchurch case files and begin final inventory of the intelligence gathered sometime in the late afternoon or early evening. There is no rush.

"Just dinner. How about yourself? How is your father?"

"He's good. He's uh…he's better. He's definitely getting better. I think tomorrow we'll just open some presents and then laze around in our pyjamas. Mom was the one who liked the formal dinner stuff." Tim informs me whilst concentrating intently on the road ahead. The pain of his mother's death is still fresh. I understand and will not broach the subject. "Did your mom like the meal at the dinner table bit too?" He asks with a suddenness that catches me off-guard. I stare at him in silence for some time. He can evidently feel the weight of my gaze as he retracts his question. "I'm sorry. I know it's none of my business." I shake my head.

"It's fine. My mother did enjoy a traditional dinner. She enjoyed the entire festive season as I recall, especially the decorating. We used to spend many hours dressing the tree in the parlour in anticipation of my father's arrival from work." The boy nods and is clearly trying to picture such a scene in his head judging by his bemused expression. It seems he cannot imagine the scene with me as a willing participant. He looks like he wants to ask another question but is incredibly wary. I believe I know what it will be. "I am sorry to say that all Christmases after their deaths were hard to cope with. They still are, but I think you'll fare slightly better in your father's company: he's a good man." Tim nods in appreciation of my praise for Jack.

"You know…you're always welcome to come over for a while tomorrow. Maybe you could even stay for some food?" The boy suggests in an uncertain but hopeful tone. I am thankful for his invitation, but must decline. I am not good company during these kind of occasions, especially since Jason's death two years ago.

"Thank you but I would prefer to spend tomorrow in Alfred's company." I say as we begin our final approach to the cave's vehicle entrance. "I think I will get out here and walk. Please stop."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. There is adequate space for you to turn around without difficulty if you stop now."

"I'd like it if you'd let me drop you off in the cave."

"You've done more than enough this evening."

"You know my Russian pronunciation may suck, but I understand it well enough: you told her I was your son." The atmosphere between us is immediately saturated in deathly silence. He has evidently read more into what I said than was necessary.

"I apologize if I made you feel awkward as a consequence, Tim. It was merely the simplest way of explaining such a complex arrangement without convolution." I say to break the quiet. The boy passes the turn-around point and continues into the hidden tunnel.

"Yeah and I would believe it was just that if not for one thing."

"And that would be?"

"You considered saying no. And it didn't make me feel awkward: I consider it…a compliment." I cannot find a suitable response so I do not reply. Tim is also unable to find a way to continue the conversation in any sustainable fashion so the ensuing silence is filled with the gentle hum of the car's engine. Eventually we reach the vehicle park. The boy brings the vehicle to a halt and I am free to leave.

"Thank you for your assistance this evening. I hope you and your father enjoy yourselves tomorrow. Good night, Tim." Before I am out of reach, the boy puts a hand on my forearm. When I turn to look at him, I find he has removed his domino mask. It is presumably so I may view the sincerity in his eyes, of which there is plenty as well as slightly childish sentiment that speaks of hope. The effect is powerful but not overpowering. He is an emotionally-charged adolescent, but not sensitive. I cannot hurt his feelings in this matter, only disappoint him.

"You don't have to be alone, you know. Just because you made a mistake with Jason it doesn't mean you're a bad person. It doesn't mean you have to stay in the dark. I literally live just down the road and you can phone Dick. You're not a monster. You're not." He says before releasing his grip and putting his mask back on. He smiles at me. "Happy Holidays Bruce." I shut the door and watch him leave without adding anything else. I understand his reasoning on the matter. That he is brave enough to offer such remarks to my face and not shy away when the topic demands full commitment is also admirable. I am aware I am not yet a monster, but I am also not ready to commit to a deeper more meaningful friendship with the boy at this time. I am inordinately fond of him and his company, more so than I could have ever expected to be at the outset of his tenure as Robin. Jack Drake is fortunate to have been blessed with such a son. That is why I cannot commit. I am afraid of hurting him.

I loved both Dick and Jason with equal affection. Both their tenures in the Robin mantle yielded similar and impressive scalps in the criminal underworld and both their childhoods ended in a blaze of anger, tears and…at least in Jason's case, blood. I fear I am beginning to love Tim just as much as either Dick or Jason. That means that violence and death wait for him further down the path if I continue to act as his shadow. His mother has already paid with her life. That is why I must limit our interactions to those of a business-like nature. I must make him keep his distance if only to spare him more heartache from being involved with my crusade. It is not only the right thing to do: it is the ONLY thing to do. I return my equipment and suit to the armoury, put on my dressing gown and begin my ascent to the house.

"I do not believe that one will ever be contented with merely a professional relationship, Sir." I look over my shoulder and see Alfred emerge from the vehicle park wearing coveralls and carrying a toolbox. I tasked the old man to check the suspension and shock absorbers on the Bat mobile in Robin's absence. Evidently the job also has other uses it can lend itself to, namely eavesdropping.

"Am I to take it that you have completed your checks, Alfred?" I say descending from the few steps I have climbed in order to meet him near the command centre. The old man nods.

"You are back early, Master Bruce. I did not expect your arrival for several more hours. It is barely after eleven. I was also under the impression you had granted the boy an extended absence from his duties to be with family."

"It seems he cannot stay away for too long. It's barely been six days since he left the cave. I think he enjoys being Robin a little too much."

"You and I both know it is not simply the mantle that compels him to keep returning here most evenings and weekends. It is also your company. It is remarkable that despite or rather because your efforts to the contrary, this boy still relishes your company more than that of any other person in his life, including his own father." The old man is something of a busybody. He is trying to insinuate that I am one of the most important people in Tim's life. Perhaps I am, but there is a reason for that.

"That is hardly surprising given his father's current condition and his preference for spending time here instead of pursuing a more active social life with his peers." I counter. Alfred almost looks bored by this response.

"Why must you pick fault with his life choices rather than your own?" I do not like the fact he alludes that blame lies with me and not anybody else. I barely restrain myself from snapping in issuing my reply.

"Why must you always try to impress upon me that he considers me his best friend? You are the one constantly getting these adolescents to gravitate towards me like I'm some kind of lighthouse beacon in an otherwise dark landscape. I told you that after Jason I would not become involved with another one on anything but a professional level. That was a strict rule."

"With all due respect, Sir, you began breaking that rule not long after you met him. You attended his mother's funeral and let him stay at the manor whilst his father was in hospital. The very reason you allowed him to try for the mantle was because you were emotionally invested in him as a person. When you see an adolescent with the right potential and drive as well as a tragic past, you simply cannot help yourself. I think its grand myself. Even after losing Jason, you still feel this overwhelming need to help someone reach their full potential."

"What are you saying Alfred? You want me to adopt another one for you to dote on? Perhaps you would prefer it if I paid his father off for the privilege of raising his son." The old man adopts an expression of irritation and lethargy at my retort. He dismisses the conversation with an errant wave of his hand.

"Very well, Master Bruce, if you're going to be childish about the matter, forget I spoke." He says setting the toolbox down and beginning to stride past me to the stairs.

"Did you really expect anything more of me, Alfred? It's been two years and it's still…raw." I tell him expecting him to stop at the mention of Jason's death. But the old man continues his journey without even slightly slowing his pace.

"That is only because you keep opening the wound up, Sir. The truth is you do not want it to heal. You are afraid of letting yourself and letting him go. Let it be known that this behaviour and isolation is not simply disapproved by me: Master Jason would also look down on you for freezing such a wonderful boy out of your affections because of his death." Alfred says with more than a trace of venom as he nears the summit of the stairs and the entrance to the library. The old man stops at the penultimate step to turn and regard me. "I believe the words he would use to describe you at this moment would be a 'pussy-faced bitch'. And he would be correct." He says with a thin smile. I say nothing in reply. Seemingly satisfied with himself, Alfred resumes his journey. "In or out, Master Bruce, sink or swim as they say."

I stand in the dark for a long time after the old man's departure. Then I make my choice. At just after midday on Christmas day, I knock on Tim's door.


End file.
